Bloody Silmarils, book 1
by Petite Dilly
Summary: In Gondolin, Turgon is depressed... A Silmarillion parodic story in the way of the tv-show Kaamelott and the Monty Python's Holy Grail. [This is the translation of the french fanfiction "Maudits Silmarils".]
1. The miller of Gondolin

**Notes :** This is the translation of a fanfiction originally written in french, entitled "Maudits Silmarils", with 34 chapters (and still in progress). If you read french easily, I higly recommand you to read it in the original version, as some jokes and ways of speaking are difficult to translate.

And, last but not least, thanks a lot to Tehta who made the beta-reading of this translation in need !

**Disclaimers :** J.R.R. Tolkien for all his writings ; Alexandre Astier for _Kaamelott _; Monty Python for the _Holy Grail_.

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**Chapter 1 : The miller of Gondolin**

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The king who sat on the golden throne in the highest tower of the Hidden City was wearing a magnificent gown looking like those you might wear to bed, as well as a severe and sullen expression. His eyes, bright and grey, were as rain pierced by rays of sunlight, and his dark hair framed a symmetric face which seemed to be carved in stone. A circle of white gold was sat upon it, but it nearly reached the belt which was wrapped around his waist several times, since it was a tradition, for the males of this lineage, to let their hair grow as much as possible, as a sign of vigour and virility – a fact which gave rise to all sorts of dubious jokes from Fëanor's sons.

But this day, Turgon, Fingolfin's second son, was in a rather good mood. He had nearly convinced his daughter to wear some shoes when she went out, which would prevent a lot of tears and surgery. He had also measured a ten centimeters increase in the height ofthe white tree he had planted on the hill. He had thought of his dead wife only once, when he woke up.

« My king », announced the Mayor of the Palace, interrupting an unhappy second time, « a human being is requesting audience. »

« A mortal ? Bring him in. »

The man who walked into the hall, a few minutes later, was of an indefinable age. His brown hair curled around his jaw, and his chin was bearded. He was dressed very simply.

« Mister... _Erik_, requests audience with his majesty King Turgon ! », announced the Intendant.

The human bowed, and then he stared at the king with a curious gaze of which only humans are capable. Not so young he was, but his eyes were green as the first grass that follows a damp winter.

« Erik ? », repeated the king, with great interest. « From which House ? »

Oh, humans often were like cute little squirrels. Furry, with a short life expectancy.

« Fram the house bihinde the mill, my lor'. »

Turgon raised a pointed eyebrow.

« He's the miller of Gondolin, my king », explained the Intendant.

« Since when anyone can just walk right into this valley like into a mill ? » (1)

Turgon realized suddenly that the proverb could provide its own explanation, but Erik was eager to reply :

« Our fader had lived 'ere, and the fader of my fader my lor'. Our familee 'ad gone with thou in thy magic vallee, to grow crops. »

« Huh... Good. And what is the reason for your visit to the palace, O Miller ? »

« That's the bread, my lor', he makes thy people sick ! Us we saugh some dark stains on the corn, but they still wanted it to be ground ! 'Cause they pretended elves can not get ill ! »

« Which is true. But carry on with your account. Who consumed that wheat ? What were its effects ? I fear some dark invention of Morgoth. »

« The elves fram the thridde feorme before the citee, my lor'. They b'came like foles. They started to dance and laugh without being able to areste ! To jump onto the trees and sing some songs that sprang out all made from their 'ead ! Invented some rymes 'bout my beard and 'bout the bread forms, just like this ! And they were so excited that they slept with opened eyes ! »

« No, my good Erik », concluded the king. « They're not ill... They're just normal. »

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« Whose funeral is that, Penlodh ? I haven't heard anything about it », complained the king.

« Nobody of importance », replied the Intendant. « Just a human miller. He was very appreciated in the valley, although he had a strange way of expressing himself. »

« A human miller... You mean, Erik the Miller ? »

« Indeed, Majesty. »

« But how did he perish ? He was so young ! I met him recently, he came to talk to me about a wheat disease... »

« So young ? He was more than sixty years old my king, which is a venerable age for a human. »

« Hence », counted Turgon, « it was ten... twenty... thirty years ago ! He took only thirty years to die ? »

« One of my acquaintances, Majesty, happened to share with me this interesting witticism... Humans are like goldfish. One day, you come back to your house and... they are dead, without any visible explanation. All you have to do is to turn your head for a minute and to think about something else. A breeze a little too fresh or too hot, a spoon of food added or subtracted, and _BAM !_ They're dead. »

The king's face darkened. For the sixth time that day, he had just thought about the big iceberg that killed his wife.

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(1) « To walk in somewhere like into a mill »/ « Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right into a place without any boundaries and control.

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Every kind of feedback is welcomed :)

Furthermore, I'm in search of beta readers for this fanfiction, as my english is not the best...


	2. Blasé

**Notes :** Every kind of feedback is welcome :) And thanks to Tetha for her comments and suggestions.

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**Chapter 2 : Blasé**

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The king was here, at last. And that was a good thing, since the Lord High Constable, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, while waiting for him, had already broken a chair, the handle of a pitcher, and a glass – he had great difficulty controling his strentgh.

« I do apologize for being late », said the king. « I had an appointment with the architects of the city, and you know well how they are. »

« I can guess, majesty. Mine hasn't finished my house yet, and the little that is done falls down as soon as it is touched. »

_I'm not sure it's the architect's fault_, thought Turgon, _but nevermind_. Glorfindel had set several sheets on the round table. On each one the picture of a blazon could be seen, and each blazon represented one of the Twelve Houses of the Gondolindrim. Only the king's one was missing.

So Turgon laid down, near the others, the picture he had drawn, inked, and colored himself. The coat of arms consisted of a white moon, a yellow sun and a scarlet heart.

« It's very beautiful », said Glorfindel with a smile. « But, if I may ask you a question, majesty... Why a heart ? »

« Come on, it's obvious that this is my father's heart, Fingolfin's, high king of the Noldor. »

Glorfindel's smile froze in an indefinable expression.

« Your father's... heart ? »

« I just said it. »

« You mean... his cardiac muscle ? »

« Why are you always so literal ? It's a symbol. The scarlet heart represents my father's love. The love he has for me and the love I have for him. »

The expression on Glorfindel's face didn't look better.

« Whats is bothering you, about this heart ? Say it clearly, and cease wearing that contorted face. You look as if you have been bitten by a balrog. »

Glorfindel cleared his throat.

« Hem... You really want to know my opinion, majesty ? »

« As I already told you. »

« Well... I find it looks a bit... how to define it... A heart on a banner, facing the orcish legions of Angband... »

« Carry on. »

« They're going to... »

« To what ? »

« It looks... »

« ...looks ? »

« A bit sissy, majesty », poured out the elf quickly.

Turgon, the king whose face was like carved in stone, looked at Glorfindel, his long hair, so golden and wavy, his embroidered clothes, like meadows at springtime, and the little bells that were sprinkled all over them.

« _Sissy_, you say ? »

The captain of the Gondolin armies nodded.

« And the Golden Flower, it doesn't look sissy, perhaps ? »

« Majesty, you told me to be sincere. Imagine Gothmog's hilarity, on the battlefield. »

« It will distract him. And you will take advantage of this moment of inattention to floor him. »

« There is no way I'll fight a balrog », replied Glorfindel.

« I thought you were the stronger elf in Middle Earth, except for my father ? »

« I'm not crazy. »

« But is this not why I pay you, to beat impressive ennemies ? »

« With all due respect, majesty, you don't pay me. »

« I don't pay you ? »

« You don't. »

Turgon turned to Penlodh, his intendant, who stood still in a corner of the room since the beginning of the meeting.

« Penlodh, I don't pay him ? »

« No my lord. »

« But he must certainly be paid, like the other soldiers ? »

« The other soldiers aren't paid either », said Glorfindel.

« How is it that ? »

« You are the king », stated the intendant, while going near Turgon. « You don't have to pay them. »

« Glorfindel, how much must I give to have you face a balrog ? »

« Majesty, it will be heading for a certain death. And I didn't make all this way throug the Ice to come back now, to my starting point in Aman. »

The argument was forceful ; Turgon thought of his wife again.

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Three months later and two hundred miles further, on Himring the Ever-cold, the company who had gone hunting three days before had just passed the iron portcullis. The prince Maedhros was at the head of the troop, accompanied by his brother Maglor, who kept watch on the Eastern Gap, but was here for a visit of several weeks. Silver armours and furs were on them, but no jewelry on their brow. Maedhros' hair, of shining copper, fell on his shoulders freely. As for his face, it must have been very fair once, but now, the sparkle of life had left it.

He dismounted from his horse, and let one of his squires deal with it.

« Nothing new during my absence ? », he asked.

« No my lord. Save a package from your cousin Turgon. It awaits you in your room. »

o

« Maglor, come and see this... », said Maedhros a few minutes later. « We just received Turgon's new standard. »

Maglor the Bard finished taking off his leather boots, and then approached the wooden secretary, upon which had been laid the bright banner.

« It's a beautiful work », he judged, touching the delicate embroidery of the fabric. « But that scarlet emblem, here, it can't be a heart ? »

« It's definitely one. »

The two brothers stayed silent. Neither of them dared to express his thought aloud. Then Maedhros said quickly : « It looks a bit sissy doesn't it. »

« It does », said Maglor.


End file.
